


Within These Walls (We Are Cruel)

by sassyclassy_ass



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Sansa, Character Death, Cousin Incest, Developing Relationship, Dragons, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Female Friendships, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Incest, Littlefinger Is Terrifying And Obsessed, Magic, Mix between books and show, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Multiple, Past Rape/Non-con, Politics, Post Season Six, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, R plus L equals J, References to Abuse, References to Ramsay, Sexual Content, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, The Starks are coming again, The Woman of the North standing as one, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, direwolves, the Riverlands, will add tags as I go along
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-16 00:20:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9265490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassyclassy_ass/pseuds/sassyclassy_ass
Summary: “Tell me, Alayne – which is more dangerous, the dagger brandished by an enemy, or the hidden one pressed to your back by someone you never see?”“The hidden dagger.”Jon and Sansa have reclaimed their home but that does not mean all is well. Winter is finally here and the dead are rising but the game is still playing and the last of the Starks find themselves tangled in a silent war that threatens to tear them apart.





	1. Chapter

The loud cheers of the Northern Lords left his ears ringing, despite leaving the feast. King. He was a King. The thought gave him surprisingly little joy. This was all supposed to be Robb’s or Sansa’s or even Bran’s. It was never supposed to go to him. He wanted to feel joy and happiness but the ghosts of the former Kings of the North and Lady Stark’s wraith loomed over him. He didn’t belong here. 

“Why do you look so sad?” He turned towards Sansa open-mouthed. He expected to see scorn and anger in her face but he only saw concern and their father’s face reflected at him. There was something about the slight curve of her mouth, the face that faded into stillness that was all Ned Stark. He felt a sharp ache in his chest at the thought of their father. Ned Stark would have been proud of Sansa. He would be so proud of her but he could no longer tell what their father would have thought of him. Would Eddard Stark have regretted bringing him and raising him alongside his trueborn children? Would he be disappointed or would he have hated him as his wife had for taking what had always been the right of his trueborn siblings? He didn’t know and he didn’t ever want to find out. For the first-time Jon felt grateful for the black void that was death. 

“That’s just my face.” Sansa scowled at his answer and swatted at him.

“Jon! Don’t be difficult.” He laughs at her annoyance but sobers up quickly. It is strange seeing a woman who looked like Catelyn Stark staring at him with concern. It made him feel off-balanced and uncomfortable. She shouldn’t be worried for me. She should hate me. 

“Nothing, I’m fine,” he tells her lightly. Sansa stares at him critically and nods stiffly before turning away. She stares into the fire and says nothing. His heart aches at her obvious hurt. 

“As long as you are well,” she says finally. 

“I shouldn’t be King,” the confession bursts out. Sansa’s head shoots up and she looks at him quizzically. 

“Of course, you should. You saved us all. We’re standing here because of you,” she tells him gently but he shakes his head. She’s wrong. 

“We’re standing here because of you. Without the Vales army, we would all be dead.” They both stiffen at the mention of the Vale. Her distrust and lie still stings. He knows why she did it but that did not stop the hurt the anger. They both stare at each other as a blanket of awkwardness falls over them both. Sansa shakes her head and continues. 

“We both did it, together. The people chose you as their king. They want and need you, Jon. Not me,” Sansa says but he can hear the sadness that bellies her words.

“That wasn’t their right to choose me,” he argues. Sansa rolls her eyes and stares at him exasperated.

“Well they did, right or no right, they chose you. I’m only a girl. How would I have even begun to lead them?” Sansa snapped sounding bitter and angry and hurt all at once. He leaned closer to her and took her hand. She stiffened at first but then relaxed and slid her own fingers to his own. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

“You’ve never been just a girl.” Sansa’s eyes go wide and then her whole face softens. 

“Well I was and I still am.” He opens his mouth to disagree but she stops him with a look. “Jon, I never wanted to be Queen. I just wanted to go back home and I have that and that’s enough.”

“It is enough?” He asks cautiously. Sansa nods and smiles at him. He’s struck by her beauty as the mask falls. She is radiant, so radiant that he has to look away in fear of being blinded.

“Yes.”


	2. Chapter 2

The nights were getting longer and colder and the last rays of sunlight were slowly dying. The last tell tale of the long and fruitful summer could only be found in the weak dredges of sunlight barely piercing through the clouds.

Winter had come and no one knew that better than the smallfolks. She read the letter again. It was another letter discussing the destruction left by the Bolton rebels. Ramsay and his dogs had starved and beaten the people in Winter town in the days leading up to the battle and the effects were still being seen. It made bile rise in her throat at the thought of Ramsay and all he had done. All those people who he had hurt. He was long dead but that did not seem to stop or end the horrors he had unleashed.

She had sat with the smallfolk for hours and hours, just hearing about Ramsay. How he had flayed one man's daughter and killed another. How he had fed a child of only four to his dogs. It had all faded into the quiet buzz of life, the sound of the crackling fire, the shadows hidden away in the corners of a room, the dust in the air. News and stories of Ramsay had faded into that, there, there, always painfully there.

She had tried to listen to them but all of it was so like her own stories. It was as if she was staring at her own face reflected at her, pain to pain. She didn't want to feel like that. She wanted to give them hope but her throat always seemed to close whenever she tried to speak of Ramsay and she spent most of her nights shivering at the memory of his breath and weight against her every night. It was cruel and unfair of her to be like this. It had been the smallfolk that had risked their lives for her. It had been the smallfolk that had even died for her but she couldn't even bring herself to open her mouth. There was the sharp and bitter taste of bile and vomit behind her throat every time Ramsay was spoken of. She felt more and more like a little girl each day, every time Ramsay was mentioned. She felt more like a fraud each time she caught sight of the smallfolk looking more tired, more hopeless and hungrier than before. She was supposed to be giving them hope and peace. She could even almost forgive the Lords for overlooking her when she looked back at her behaviour.

Almost.

Bitterness pooled in her stomach at the memory of all the Lords cheering for Jon and Lyanna Mormont looking smug and proud. She didn't want to feel like this. She had meant it when she told Jon that she had never wanted to be Queen. She meant it, a crown was too heavy a burden, one wrong slip and she would be dead. Crowns were meant for people like Margaery Tyrell and her brothers and even Cersei. Crowns were not meant for people like her. She tried to console herself with that though but all she can think of is how they had been so ready to reject her. How the Lords had rejected her again and again. Turning their eyes as she was wed to Ramsay, turning their eyes when she begged for their help in retaking her home and again turning their eyes when they crowned Jon right in front of her.

Jon had looked so amazed and happy but then that all had faded into guilt and shame. She had wanted to take his face between her hands and smooth away all the lines but all she all she could see was how the eyes of the people had flickered to her, suddenly looking weary and unsure.

The rejection stung but the whispers stung more so. The Lords hadn't just rejected her. That would have been an easy thing to accept and forgive. No, they hinted at reasons to be weary of her character. If even a child could see something wrong with Sansa Stark, surely there must be something truly twisted about her.

Rumours of her treachery, of her twisted shapeshifting powers, of her betrayal and wicked nature, floated within the walls of Winterfell, hiding away in the corners of rooms and as silent as a single breath. She heard it all. There were even rumours talking about how she had feasted on the body of her dead brother, Rickon. That one made her feel sick but there was nothing that could be done now. Ramsay's death hadn't helped matters either. E _ven dead, Ramsay continues to torment me._ She groaned at the ridiculousness of her situation.

There was a tentative knock at the door and she sighed and straightened up. "Come in," she shouted, looking up from the numerous of letters and papers that covered the desk. A small boy pushed the door open and stepped in looking nervous and scared. She tried to smile at him but it came across as a grimace and the boy looked (if possible) even more scared.

"Hello, what can I do to help you?" She tries to sound gentle but she hasn't truly slept for nearly three days and there is so much work to do and she ended up sounding impatient and snappy. The boy went pale and she internally groaned. It seemed like she couldn't do anything right anymore.

"A letter was sent to you m'lady," the boy stuttered over his words.

"Thank you," she said softly, shooting him a grateful smile. The boy seemed to calm down at the sight of her appreciation and even gave her a small and hesitant smile of his own. He flitted to her side and passed her the letter and before she could say anything else he flitted right back out. She stared at his receding figure, bemused and snorted at his sudden departure. The poor boy.

She turned to look down at the letter but her stomach immediately filled with icy terror. The letter bore the Lannister seal. Her hands shook as she broke it open and unfolded the letter. _I should throw it in the fire. What can Cersei do to me now? I'm home now. I'm home._ The thought should have given her some comfort but her heart pounded and her hands still shook at the sight of the letter. She opened the letter fully and read the contents with bated breath.

She tried to read the letter but all the words seemed to blur and merge into one until all she had left was a jumble of words and sentences that didn't make sense.

_Little she-wolf._

_I am Queen._

_Margaery dead._

_Sept burnt._

_You will die._

_Traitor, traitor, traitor._

Everything seemed to fade into little pinpricks of sensation as she read the letter. She read it all but she didn't _read_ it. Understanding it was like grasping at air, futile and impossible. Perhaps she might have been able to understand if it was not for the laboured breath in the room. How was she supposed to grasp this when it was so noisy? It took her some time for her to realise that the sound originated from her. She was crying as well.

Why?

She had hated the Sept. They had cut her father's head on those exact steps. They had murdered her father there. His blood had soaked through the stones. She had watched her father die there and yet she could not stop weeping. She had hated that place. She had hated it so much and still she felt no relief or happiness. She had once wished for the Sept of Baelor to burn but she had never wanted it like this. Not at this price, the price was too high. It was all too high to pay.

Maybe, she wept for Margaery Tyrell. The other woman had never been a true friend to her. Margaery had abandoned her as soon as she had wed the Imp. She had talked about how one day they would be sisters and yet she had run and then allowed her to take the fall for Joffrey's death. The Tyrells had only cared for her claim and when that had gone, they had turned their faces away. She had only ever been a piece to them. She told herself all of this but the tears or gasps would not stop.

She didn't even know why she cried. Was it for the girl who could have been her sister? Was it because Cersei was now Queen? Was it out of fear or were these tears of joy and relief? Her father had been avenged in part and her wish had come true? She could not tell and that made her tears far worse. Stop crying you stupid girl. You the blood of Winterfell, a wolf, wolves didn't cry.

She wanted to be like her father and Robb. Strong and brave and impenetrable but she kept on breaking and fracturing. She breathed in deeply and tried to focus on the little patterns in the grain of wood. It didn't look like much but it calmed her. Your tears are a myth. Y _our tears are a myth. You must not ever let them see you cry._ She repeated the words as if it were a mantra until her breath was once again calm and steady, until she was ice.

_Give me and ice and reason. I am done with tears_. It was this prayer, the only prayer that she bothered to recite these days. It was the only prayer that seemed to ever do anything.

She took a deep breath again and got up from behind the table. She needed answers and there was only one man who could even begin to give them to her. She grimaced at the thought. She would have liked nothing better than to throw Littlefinger out of the castle and spit at him but he was, unfortunately, a rather valuable ally. Their only valuable ally.

Anger would have to wait for now. It had no use when dealing with men like Littlefinger. That, however, did not stop her from watching his every move. _You saved our skin but I know what you have done._ The thought filled her with unease and fear. How long would they be stuck in this tense balance? Until one slipped? Until one died? She pushed all those thoughts away. Littlefinger was more slippery and slyer than an eel. If she wanted to get anything from him without owing him a greater debt, she would need all her wit.

She got up from her chair and made her way to the door but another sharp knock stopped her. She stiffened at the sound. Was it more bad news?

"Sansa, it's me. Can I come in?" She cursed at the sound of Jon and looked down herself. She was certain that she looked like a mess and the letter was still crumpled in her hand. There was nothing else that she could do now so she wiped away her tears, smoothed her hair and opened the door. She hid the letter behind her skirts and crumpled it into a ball of paper. She near snickered at the sight of him, despite being King, Jon looked as gloomy as ever. She didn't remember kings looking so displeased all the times. Then again, she had only known two kings. One had been fat and a drunkard and the other had been nothing more than a cruel little boy. She shook herself from any thoughts of the past. She looked up at him again but turned away at his double take. She scowled at his obvious shock. She was certain that she must look a sight but Jon didn't have to be so obvious about it.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" She asked, trying to sound steady and calm but her voice sounded rough and cracked at the end.

"Sansa what's wrong?" Concern flooded his voice. She wanted nothing more than to curl up into a ball or scream or just spill every single hurt and fear and blubber like a child but she held herself back. What was the use of telling Jon this when she was in such a state? Everything was so Knowledge was power and she didn't have even enough to say or do anything. It would be foolish, stupid, the actions of a silly girl. That did not squash her desire to tell him everything. She clamped her mouth and smiled. Jon's expression morphed into something of weariness and uncertainty. His obvious distrust stung fiercely. He wanted trust and yet he was so weary of her. That gave her all she needed to truly clamp down on any loose desires. She would tell him, just not yet.

"I'm fine. What is it you need?" She moves out of the doorway and went back to her seat. Jon's eyes followed her but he didn't move from his position. "Well?" That seemed to awaken him and he moved towards her.

"Sansa, please tell me what's wrong. Has someone –"

"What do you need?" She interrupted him. Jon studied her but nodded and walked towards where she sat behind the desk, finally sitting down. She sighed in relief at his silent acceptance and shot him a smile. "So, what is it you need?"

Jon seemed to deflate at that question and sighed heavily, looking exhausted and like their father. "I need your help writing letters to all the Lords of Winterfell." She stared at him blinking. Her confusion must have shown on her face because he continued. "We'll need everyone's help if we mean to stave off and win against the Others." She could feel an oncoming headache at his answers. It was the damn Others that he ever spoke of these days. The Others this and the Others that, stupid children stories and fairy tales. Cersei was now Queen and the Sept was burned and all Jon could focus on was fighting against some imaginary foe. There were real enemies waiting to kill them all and all Jon could talk about this. The game was still playing and if Jon didn't start moving his pieces, they would all die. The crumpled letter in her hand felt even heavier than before. Jon's imagined war paled against the reality of Cersei's madness and the death of so many innocents.

"I wouldn't bother. They'll never help," she said blasely, turning back to her letters. "They have things of greater importance on their mind."

"Things of greater importance? Sansa, there's a war that is coming that no one even knows about. We can't survive or win without help," Jon heatedly recited the same speech that he had been repeating for weeks. It took everything in her not to roll her eyes.

"Jon, we're in a war right now. The Lannisters are in power ad waging war against anyone and everyone who stands in their way –" She tried to continue calmly but Jon interrupted her.

"The Lannisters are not the biggest threat! The dead are coming and if we don't warn everyone now and do something then we might as well just die now." She stared at him horrified and scared. Her brother wasn't mad. She knew that. He was nothing like Joffrey or Ramsay. He was good and kind and strong and brave and gentle. He was all those things and more but she could not stop the unease that slid beneath her skin, making her feel weary and afraid. A flash of hurt appeared on Jon's face before it was gone.

"You think I'm mad, don't you?" She shook her head and she meant it.

"No, I don't think you're mad but I am afraid. The Lannisters killed our family. That can never be forgotten. I can't forget what they did." She had wanted to sound calm but the words that came out were choked and tearful. Jon's face softened and he laid his hand atop of hers. She stiffened under the weight of his hand but then softened and turned her palm upwards so she could tangle her fingers in his.

"We won't forget and they will be punished but please, Sansa, help me." She nodded unwittingly. It was stupid to do something like this. They should be marching against the Lannisters. They should be making battle plans and seeking allies. This wasn't wise. This wasn't good. This was pure madness.

"I don't agree with you but I'll help. I'll help you write those letters." Jon grinned, his face like the sun breaking out from behind clouds. Her raised her hands up and pressed a kiss to the palm of her hand. They both froze at the intimacy of his actions. He dropped her hand as if he had been burnt and she quickly hid her hand underneath the desk. She could still feel the tingles and heat radiating from the spot that he had kissed. His lips had felt so soft against her palm but there had been the scratch of his beard as well.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Thank you." He abruptly left and she watched him leave half-dazed and feeling dizzy. She couldn't say a word of goodbye as her breath was trapped away in her chest, shaking and rattling with something unbeknownst to her.

"Goodbye, I'll write those letters for you. We'll review them after dinner," she finally choked out. Jon nodded at her stiffly and stumbled out. She smiled softly but the expression came to a stuttering stop. She could feel the whisper of his touch, soft and gentle. _Foolish girl, smiling and losing sense over a kiss on the hand,_ a spiteful voice cried out. She sighed and pushed her letters to the side so she could make room for the new letters that needed to be written. That, however, did not stop her from gently caressing the skin that had been kissed.

_Only girls act this way_ , another voice whispered but Sansa couldn't say that she especially minded that now.


	3. Chapter 3

She was exhausted. She had spent most of the night awake and writing the letters for Jon or puzzling over the news of missing girls. Her duties felt never-ending and constant and she got no rest. Whether it was helping Jon plan a war against the Others or running the castle or dealing with the smallfolk and their fears and missing women. All she wanted to do was curl up and sleep but she couldn’t. She needed to find out what had happened in Kingslanding. All she ever thought of now days was Margaery and her last moments. She needed to find out, if not to be prepared then to give her mind some rest.

She walked towards Littlefinger’s room, reciting the words that she would need to say. It was all simple. All she need to ask about was the Sept and Cersei’s accession to the throne. If Littlefinger tried to weasel out or tried anything then she would only remind him that he still owed her. It should have been simple. It should have been easy but she could barely remember her words and her skin was tight and itchy from unease. She needed to find out the truth, whether Cersei posed a threat or what the Tyrell’s next moves were. She even needed to find out what had happened to Tommen but all she wanted to do was run, turn tail, never come back, be a craven. She forced herself to walk on. Littlefinger would know that she was scared if she avoided him or even worse, he would take offense. The consequences of acting on her fear stilled her hands. Although, he would probably discover her unease when she went to see him now. She sighed, it couldn’t be helped. What were her options? Live in apprehensive ignorance or owe Littlefinger once more. Sansa could not decide which was worse.

She finally reached the door and took in a deep breath. There was nothing that could be done, she had to know. Cersei had sent a letter promising her death and destruction. She couldn't hide away like a child, burying her head under her covers. Doing that would mean death. Still, she remained frozen before Littlefinger's door. _Don’t be a little fool_ , a harsh voice whispered, _you’re not a child anymore. Knock on the door_. She sighed deeply but knocked gently on the door, hoping that Littlefinger was gone or that he didn’t hear her but the door swung widely open and Littlefinger stood before her, grinning.

“My dear Sansa, what a lovely surprise. I can’t say that I was expecting to see you.” There was a sly smile on his face as he said his words. Littlefinger took her hand and she had to stop herself from recoiling or flinching. _You need him_ , she reminded herself but the thought did not calm her. He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to it before dropping it. It took everything in her not to wipe or scrub at the skin that he touched. Her heart pounded and her mouth went dry from his actions. She forced the fear away. She didn’t have time to be scared.

“I apologise for my surprise visit. May I come in?” She asked, forcing the words out. Littlefinger smiled as if he knew exactly what she was thinking but said nothing else and moved out the way. She walked into his room, the unease and fear growing as she stepped in. She could not help but feel like she had walked into some kind of trap.

“Please, sit down.” Littlefinger sat down and waved towards the seat opposite him but she only shook her head. She wouldn’t allow him to lull her into a false sense of security. She needed to be in control of this situation. Littlefinger’s face went dark at her refusal but a smile quickly replaced it, so quick that she wouldn’t have noticed his former ire if not for her paranoid watchfulness. His smile was like the sun itself but she could not bring herself to trust him. _You sold me to Ramsay as if I were some whore,_ she thought to herself bitterly. She would never make the mistake of trusting him again. All her bruises were lessons learned but all her lessons were painful and came with a price too high.

“I need information,” she said slowly. Littlefinger didn’t react to her response. He only grabbed at a peach and bit into it. Juice sliding down his fingers. She watched him wearily as he ate the fruit.

“Want one? Messy fruits they are but we have such little time to enjoy the little pleasures. Don’t we sweet girl?” He asked, offering the one that he had just bitten into. She only watched him, unease filling her stomach. What game was he playing at? She didn’t know the rules to this game. What was she supposed to do next?

“No thank you,” she said carefully. Littlefinger only shrugged and bit into the fruit.

“I swear you’re turning more Northern as the day passes. You would have said yes to my peach before,” Littlefinger sighed, sounding more sad and disappointed. She could think of a great many things that she would have been able to do if Littlefinger had never sold her. Had he forgotten all he had done or did he just not care? She had Winterfell now so everything was well once more? It was not. She couldn’t think of a single thing that would ever make what Ramsay had done worth it. She narrowed her eyes at him, unsure of what exactly to say. All the words that sprung to her mind were too angry and too young to ever mention to a man like Littlefinger.

“Most people tend to be hungry when they accept offers of food. Most people including myself but unfortunately, I already broke my fast,” she said, not being able to stop the waspish tone in her voice. “The information Lord Baelish?” Littlefinger studied her carefully but otherwise did not react to her obvious impatience.

“There’s a great deal of information my dear Sansa. Do you mean information on whether you will be able to enjoy your lemon cakes during Winter or information on what my favourite fruit is?” She didn’t react to Littlefinger this time. He seemed blissfully unaware of how much of a thorn in her side he was being.

  
“Don’t jape My Lord. It doesn’t suit you.” Littlefinger finally looked up, lazily smiling.

“No jape. You need to specify. I have information on a variety of things but what thing is it that you need,” Littlefinger said politely, waggling a finger in her face. She wanted nothing more than to grab that damn finger and rip it off. She started at her sudden violent desires. She had no time to be playing Littlefinger’s strange games. She had no desire to play at all.

“I need to know more of what took place in the Sept of Baelor. Cersei sent me a letter, threatening to kill me. Does she pose a threat?” Littlefinger’s smile only grew and she knew immediately that she had just done what he wanted of her. She wanted to curse herself and ineptitude but now was not the time. Rage and self-loathing was for another time.

“Well, I assume you have most of the information. It is quite straight-forward or—“

“Damnit Littlefinger.” The words burst out. Littlefinger only leaned back looking disappointed and disgusted by her sudden show of emotion and anger.  
“How many people pose a threat in Winter?” He asked her. She rolled her eyes.

“How many people blow up a Sept in a bid to take power and murder thousands?” She snapped, fear twisted in her stomach at the thought of Cersei. It was Winter yes but Winterfell had just been retaken and they were still all so weak. It wouldn’t be difficult for an assassin to slip in unnoticed.

“What Cersei’s done, is, unusual, yes but also remember that she is now trying to hold a city that now hates her. She’ll be dealing with instilling order into the city before she even tries to hurt you,” Littlefinger explained, sounding bored. She finally relaxed at his words. He was right, _of course, he was right_. Her legs went weak at his news and she sat down on the chair he had offered, relief coursing through her body.

“Yes, but this Cersei is mad. She’s not thinking reasonably,” she pointed out, still not ready to accept Littlefinger’s words.

“Even mad woman need to think about their survival,” Littlefinger said lazily. She perked up at his words. People were trying to kill Cersei? He must have seen her face because he laughed. She flushed red at his amusement, anger curling in her stomach. He stopped and shook his head. “You didn’t think men would have tried to kill Cersei? After her blowing up one of the most sacred buildings in all of Westeros and the King and Queen alongside with it. Men haven’t stopped trying to murder the woman since.”

“You expect me to believe that Cersei would kill Tommen?” Horror and disbelief filled her stomach at the revelation. Cersei had been a great many things: cruel, vain and selfish but a Kinslayer, never. She had loved her children too much. She could still remember the wail that she had emitted when Joffrey had died in her arms. It had been monstrous and ugly in its grief. No, Cersei would never kill her children.

“No,” Littlefinger answered, shaking his head. “The boy committed suicide when he saw that his beloved wife and Queen was murdered alongside a thousand others.” Bile rose in her mouth at Littlefinger’s answer. Tommen had been Lannister but he had been kind and gentle. She still remembered him thrusting one of his kittens into her arms, a soft ball of fluff. She took in a deep breath. She needed to calm herself. She was being swayed by emotion, being moved here and there by sentiments and feelings. She needed to be like her father. She needed to be like ice.

“What’s happening in the city right now? Has anyone tried to attack the city?” She asked, finally feeling calm again. He shook his head but at her querying look answered her.

“Much the same of what happened when Joffrey first came into power. The people are angry and scared. There have been no attacks on the city but there have been several small mutinies all through the city. Cersei has her Gold Cloaks at work, though." She nodded, unsurprised by the information. "Is that all?" She was about to get up and shake her head but then she remembered. She had been getting complaints of Bolton loyalists and missing girls and women. Sansa was certain that they were dead now as much it pained her to think of it but she couldn’t allow it to continue. She wouldn’t allow Ramsay or his men or anyone to ever hurt or treat a woman or a girl the way that she had once been treated.

“Yes, there is,” she said finally, mulling over her words. Littlefinger stared at her looking expectant but she hesitated. It somehow seemed wrong to tell Littlefinger this when she hadn’t told Jon yet. She shook herself from her thoughts. Jon was busy with the meetings and running Winterfell and preparing for the supposed war against the Others. She needed to be the one to fix this. It needed to be her. “The remaining Bolton loyalists they’ve been causing havoc in the villages. I’m getting reports that some of the womenfolk have been abducted.” Littlefinger’s face revealed nothing. He simply looked like he didn’t care. She wondered how many people had been hurt just because no one cared enough to do something? The number was too much to truly know. It made her sad to think about how little people truly cared. _It seems that there are truly no knights and songs that are real in this world_ , she thought to herself. She had known it to be true but it still seemed so sad knowing that no man would help or protect the innocent or vulnerable without ulterior motive or reason. 

“And?” She frowned at his answer and leaned forward. Littlefinger’s eyes followed her, focusing on the length of her neck. His stare made her skin crawl.

“I need your help stopping them,” she told him but Littlefinger only leaned back.

"There all likely dead. This is a war, Sansa, casualties are to be expected," he said as if he were commenting on something mundane like the weather or taxes.

“I know that. I’m no child,” she snapped. Guilt seeped into her at her admission. It felt wrong somehow to admit and accept their deaths. “I need your help bringing the men to justice.”

“Why can’t your brother, the King help you with that?” She flushed at his question but quickly steeled herself and donned her mask but it was too late. Littlefinger had already seen her expression. He looked like a cat that had caught the cream.

“Oh yes, I forgot how busy he is planning this war against this imagined foe,” Littlefinger chuckled but she frowned.

“He’s busy ruling,” she corrected. Bitterness twisted in the pit of her stomach as she said the words. _You never wanted a crown,_ she reminded herself and she didn’t. She had never wanted to rule but a crown wasn’t the only thing they had taken away from her. Littlefinger snorted loudly but he held his tongue. Good, she thought to herself, relief coursing through her.

“I believe that’s all. I have a meeting with the King.” Littlefinger’s eyes flickered to her as she placed emphasis on Jon’s new role. _He’s the King and I’m his most trusted advisor. Don’t think for a moment that anything you say to me about him won’t go back._ Littlefinger didn’t say anything but she was certain that he had heard the warning in her words.

“I will see you soon then my dear Sansa?” Her skin crawled at the question. If she had it her way, she would never set eyes on Littlefinger. She smiled though at him though and kept hold of her mask.

“Of course, Lord Baelish. I will let myself out. Thank you for your hospitality,” she said kindly, inching towards the door. Littlefinger didn’t look pleased but there was nothing that could be done now. She had gotten what she had needed despite how uncouth she had been going about it. She made her way to the door but Littlefinger called her name. She paused and turned towards him, curious and weary all at once.  
“You’ll tell the King all of this, won’t you?” Littlefinger watched her carefully.

“Of course, I went to you on his orders,” she lied easily and left, not even waiting for his response. Why would he ask about Jon? She asked herself, her heart pounding loudly and blocking out all the noise. She wanted to believe that it was just a tactic to unsettle her but this was too strange. Littlefinger didn’t care for Jon and she knew what he could do to people he didn’t care for. Her aunt was the most obvious example but she knew there was more. The pit of her stomach filled with icy fear. Littlefinger was a dangerous man. What if he tried to hurt Jon? _No_. Not what if, _when_? When would he make his move?

She tried to push her fear out of her mind but the emotions and the thoughts it all stemmed from were worse than impervious, they were insidious. Just as she thought that she had rid herself of the wretched feelings, it would come back with a force even greater than before. Images of Jon’s broken and pale body attacked her mind, sharper than any knife or weapon that Ramsay had ever thought to use. She closed her eyes but the images remained, growing more gruesome and awful by the passing each passing minute.

Jon bloody and broken.

Jon in the kennels instead of Ramsay.

Jon at the steps of the Sept, waiting patiently for mercy and instead, receiving death.

Jon in the Sept with thousands of others as it was consumed by fire.

“Sansa,” she spun around to face the caller but sagged at the sight of Jon, looking as healthy and alive as usual. The relief she felt at the sight of him was overpowering and crushing.

“Jon,” she called to him. He walked closer to her and it took everything in her to not reach out to him. She smiled tightly at him instead. Why had she been so fearful? Of course, Jon was well.

“Are you well sister?” Jon asked, sounding concern. She nodded stiffly in response and looped her arm through his. Jon eyed her curiously but said nothing about the strange action.

“I’m well, and you?” Jon nodded, his expression far away and distracted. She studied him carefully, taking him in. He was still frowning but he was still handsome despite it. His hair was pulled back, showing his scar to everyone but that didn’t ruin his looks either. It made him look manly and strong. As silly as the thought was, she could not help but think that he looked like some kind of dark prince. _How was it that he did not have a mistress or a sweetheart?_ She wondered to herself. He might not have been as handsome as Theon had once been or Robb or Joffrey but he was handsome still and gentle and strong and kind. She could not imagine Jon not having another woman. He was too good not to have someone.

“—Sansa?” She blinked twice, Jon watched her looking amused. She flushed at being caught and quickly turned away.

“My apologies but could you repeat that. I didn’t hear,” she mumbled, embarrassed. Jon chuckled quietly.

“I asked if you had been able to do the letters?” Jon asked, amusement still lacing his words.

“Yes, I was able to complete them all. They’re all in the solar,” she said quickly, feeling at loss at what else she was to say. Jon nodded but said nothing else. For that she was grateful.

They finally reached the solar and Jon untangled himself from her and pushed the door open, holding it for her. She nodded in thanks and made her way to the table she had placed the letters on. She picked them up and rummaged through all of them to make certain that each letter was there. She had written one to all but the Lannister’s and Tyrell’s. Her words had jumbled and merged into one whenever she had attempted to write a letter to the Tyrell’s and it felt queer writing to the man who had near been her husband. What was she to say to him? How was she supposed to warn him and yet give her condolences to a grieving man who had lost most of his family due to the tricks of one mad woman? It was an impossible and tiring task. One that she didn’t feel ready or prepared for. One that she would never feel ready for. Margaery had never been a true friend to her but she had been _her_ friend still, one of the few lights in Kingslanding. How was she supposed to communicate all of that within one letter? Tales of mythical creatures and grief shared never seemed to be the best of mixes.

She passed all the letters to Jon and he took it from her, smiling gratefully. He sat down heavily on one of the chairs, reading each letter carefully and slowly. She watched him as he read, finally pushing herself up from her position on the floor and sitting on one of the chairs. His face was more relaxed as he read and she couldn’t help but trace each of his features with his eyes. Despite the beard and scars, Jon had a very delicate and pretty face. He must have got it all from his mother. She didn’t think their father had ever been a great beauty. She began to realise that the only thing he had gotten from their father was the Stark colouring. She didn’t remember their father looking as handsome as Jon, or, at least she had never heard anyone say anything about Eddard Starks appearance. Truth be told, she could not remember what their father had looked like. Every time she tried, all she saw was a face cast in moving shadows, invisible and unknowable. Everyone said that Jon looked like their father but she wasn’t so certain now. She couldn’t remember what their father had looked like but she couldn’t remember her father being some great beauty. Jon Snow had features that girls would be envious of. Long eyelashes and hair full and dark and curly. She shook her head and turned away from him, confused by the strange turn in her thoughts. Why would she ever even think of Jon in this way? All her thoughts were innocent but it still felt twisted and wrong in a way.

“How are the letters?” She asked, trying to distract herself. Jon looked up at her.

“They’re good. There’s a couple of things that we need to change but other than that. We also need to write a letter to the Tyrell’s.” Her stomach sunk. She shouldn’t have been surprised that he had mentioned the Tyrell’s but she had been hoping.

“We can’t write any letters to the Tyrell’s,” the words burst out. Jon’s head shot up and he narrowed his eyes at her. She stared back at him helplessly. “They’re allied with the Lannister’s. Margaery is Queen.” The lie tasted bitter and her heart clenched at the mention of Margaery. Margaery was queen, Margaery was.

“We still need to write to them,” Jon argued, eying her stubbornly. She could feel her temper rising in only a way that Jon could do.

“We can’t. They’ll laugh at us and think us fools,” she near shouted but that only seemed to antagonise and solidify his will and he only shook his head.

“We have to try,” he said, a stubborn look in his eyes.

“No, we don’t. We don’t have to try anything,” she shouted.

"This isn't a game Sansa," Jon finally exploded. She took in a deep and ragged breath. She wouldn't send that letter to the Tyrells. She wouldn’t.  
“I don’t think it’s a game Jon, but we can’t—“

"Why?" He interrupted her loudly. She stared at him wide-eyed and with her mouth hanging half open. Now was the time to tell him the truth. Now was the time but her mouth went dry and she couldn't even swallow.

“I was betrothed to their heir,” she said finally. Jon was frowning, still not understanding.

“Yes, and?” He sounded impatient but beneath all of that was the tone of caution.

“I would one day like to wed him,” the lie slid out more easily than the truth. There was a flash of something on his face before it was replaced by the usual frown. Her heart sunk at his lack of reaction. It was a lie but he didn’t know that. She didn’t know what she was expecting from him but it was not his usual show of gloom and disdain.

“I thought you never wanted to get married,” Jon said slowly. She smiled sadly at his words.

“I don’t but it would be an impossible feat to stay unwed forever and many say that he is a good and kind man. That is all I can ask for,” she tells him sadly, the truth of her words finally hitting her. She wouldn’t be able to stay like this in her home forever. One day she would be called to do her duty and she would once again be married. Perhaps, he would be a kind husband but passion and love. She didn’t think that it would ever belong to her.

“You don’t have to get married. You can stay here. I won’t ever make you marry someone you don’t want to,” Jon said fiercely. She nodded, playing with her hands. She knows that he won’t be able to keep his promise but his words are enough.

“Thank you,” Jon nodded stiffly. “But Jon, please, no letters to the Tyrells,” she pleaded. Jon frowned but nodded.

“No letters to the Tyrells.” She sagged from the weight of her relief. Air whooshes back into her lungs and she breathes properly.

“Thank you,” she said softly. She didn’t think the words truly showed how grateful she was but Jon nods stiffly and looks anywhere but at her. Disappointment pools in her stomach again and she gets up, sensing his dismissal.

“You don’t have to go,” he says softly. She smiles slightly at his silent request but hides her face and relaxes again. _He’s just saying that and doing his duty as a brother_ , she told herself sternly but the thought did not quiet the joy or happiness.

“I like your dress.” She starts slightly at his words. Not quite hearing what he said. His words are so sudden and so piercing that it takes her a while to piece the meaning of what he just said.

“Pardon?” Jon flushes red and turns away, mumbling the words. This time she hears his words.  
“You like my dress?” She asks amused.

“Yes, the flowers, are pretty,” he says awkwardly. This time she cannot help the giggle that escapes her lips. Jon sinks into his chair, scowling at the wall and she tries to temper her laughter but the sight of him sulking only makes her laugh all the harder.

“Thank you,” she wheezes out, breathless. Jon mumbles something still scowling but she rolls her eyes. “Oh, don’t be like that. It was very sweet of you. I’m glad that you liked the flowers on my dress,” she teases. The corner of Jon’s lips twitched up but he otherwise ignored her.

“Well, I’m glad that my attempt to compliment you was so amusing,” Jon grumbled, she glanced over at him and he was smiling.

“Who taught you to compliment?” She asked still laughing. Jon stopped for a moment, looking surprised but amused.

“It was you that taught me how to compliment a girl.” Her eyes widened and she suddenly remembered an eleven-year-old Jon listening carefully as she shouted orders at him. She groaned loudly. Jon laughter only got louder.

“I don’t remember teaching you to compliment girl’s dresses.” Jon shrugged.

“I thought I would be creative and apparently, it worked.”

“No wonder you’re so awful at complimenting girls. I was your teacher.” Jon snickered and shook his head at her admission.

“I wasn’t the best student and you weren’t that bad. I learned how to compliment girls. I even used your advice.” She smiled widely at that. She couldn’t imagine Jon using her advice and complimenting girls but then again, if it was anything like now then that seemed more plausible.

“You did?” She asked leaning closer to him. Jon nodded whilst smiling.

“Yes, complimented a girl’s name.” His face went sad and regretful at his words. She watched him helplessly, wanting to make him smile and laugh again.

“Well, I’m pleased that my awfulness was helpful and taught you something,” she said smirking. Jon scoffed loudly.

“You weren’t awful,” Jon denied. She raised her eyebrow at him but he didn’t budge in his opinion. Silly and stubborn man.

“I was, admit it.” Jon shook his head.

“You weren’t awful. Perhaps, bossy and a Little Lady but never awful.” She smiled at his words.

“And what am I now?” Jon gave her an appraising look that made her mind turn to mush.

“You’re still bossy and still a Lady,” he replied.

"Not little, though?" Jon froze and stared at her. There was no amusement or laughter in his expression but what was left made her feel like her skin was on fire. She flushed at his stare, regretting the question.

“No, not little anymore but a lady still.” Jon’s voice was soft and warm but there was something in the tone that made her skin go tight.  
"A grown lady then?" She asked softly, unable to break out of the strange enthrall Jon had her under.

“Yes, a grown lady.” Jon finally answered, repeating her words as if all his words and thoughts had left him. His gaze was light against her skin but she could sense something under the gray of his eyes. Something that warmed her blood and made her flush red.

“We’re both grown now.” She wanted the laughter and smiles of before rather than these strange and heated stares that made her feel scared and feverish all at once. Jon’s gaze softened and she took in a deep breath, the room now softening and emptying from the strange sickness that had passed over them for a moment.

“Yes, we are,” Jon finally said, sounding just as sad  as their father once had.


End file.
